28 Days
by Carmelroads
Summary: AU- A story told from Christian's point a view about the struggles of addiction, recovery and love.
1. Chapter 1- Hi, My Name Is

**"Hi, my name** is Christian and I abuse alcohol, cocaine, and prescription pills."

"Hi, Christian," the group murmurs a response. Looking around the "circle of trust" I can't help but mentally kick myself for being stupid enough to get caught trying to steal my mother's prescription pad. Now I'm stuck in this hole for twenty-eight days, with these fucking losers. I don't have a problem. I'm happy with my life. I don't need help; I need a fucking Klonopin and bottle of Jack.

"My alcohol addiction began when I was thirteen. I'd steal liquor from my parents' mini bar or take leftover bottles of wine after dinner parties. At fifteen, I started to experiment with weed and mushrooms. Things escalated quickly after that," I pause rubbing the back of my neck. Sharing all this personal shit goes against who I am, but I know the only way to get out of this hellhole and convince my parents I'm fixed is to play the part.

"Umm," I struggle, sweat dripping down my brow. My heart is racing and although I spent the last two days in a hospital bed going through the worst fucking withdrawal of my life, my head is still foggy. "A few days before my seventeenth birthday, I overdosed on Black, uh Black Tar Heroin. I was in a coma for four days. They said it was a blessing that I even woke up and a miracle that I didn't sustain any lasting damage."

I sigh, recalling the look on my mother's face when they finally discharged me. I promised myself, and her, that I would get clean. I never wanted to hurt Grace, my savior, but I can't help it, I'm fucked up, it's how I was born. It's how I'm wired. "After that I stayed clean for a year. I got focused, finished my senior year, graduated with my class, and enrolled in classes at WSU. My parents didn't think it was a wise idea for me to go so far away to school, but I was stubborn and I went anyway," I shrug. That was the exact moment my life changed. Three hours away from home and I might as well have been on the other side of the world.

"In school, I got drunk every single night. That first year I managed to stay away from the hard stuff, only smoking weed and getting drunk. I didn't see anything wrong with the amount I was drinking because I still maintained a 4.0 grade point average. My parents had no idea that I was drinking again. I had actually regained their trust and once I realized that, I let my guard down. "

"One night, while I was home from school, I wandered into my mother's home office looking for a pen and that's when I saw it, one of her prescription pads just sitting on the desk. It was new, maybe only missing a page or two, so without thinking I ripped off a few sheets, grabbed a pen and walked out like nothing ever happened."

"My intention was to write the script and sell the pills for beer and weed money. Well, I guess it's true what they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I became known as the pill man on campus. The more money I made, the harder I partied and the harder I partied, the more out of control I became."

"Fast forward to present time - my mother is disappointed in me, my father wants me in jail, and my brother and sister pretend like I don't exist. So here I am, flawed black sheep of the prestigious Grey clan, asking for help, looking for a way to belong." I finish, running my fingers through my hair.

"Thank you for sharing," John, the man leading the group, replies as he motions for me to sit.

I fall back into my chair and take a deep and cleansing breath. It feels bizarre being so open and honest with a room full of strangers. I think I've spoken more to this room of addicts in the last five minutes than I've spoken to my family in the last five months.

The man next to me stands and introduces himself to the group. "Hi, my name is Jack and I am a meth addict." Jack, the meth head, is about 5'10 and rail thin. He has greasy red hair and lifeless blue eyes. He looks old, his face is scarred, covered in sores, and his teeth, the few he has left, are rotten.

"Hi Jack," the room chants in unison.

Jack drones on and on about his first time using meth, but hard as I try, I just can't focus on what he is saying. The nurse from the detox ward warned me that cognitive difficulty and confusion are common withdrawal symptoms, but I never thought it would have this effect on me.

My mind wanders back to the day my dad brought me here. As groggy and off as I've been these last couple of days, that day is burned into my memory.

"_Christian, it's time for you to grow the fuck up and start acting like a man. You're nineteen years old and you're still pulling the same bullshit you pulled when you were in high school. Your mother is worrying herself into an early grave and I'll be damned if I lose my wife because you can't get over your rebellious stage. _

"_Jesus, Christian, we've given you everything you could ever want. We love you unconditionally, we've offered to get you help on numerous occasions, and we've forgiven you of all your past wrongdoings, how could you?"_

I'm a fuck up, I can't be fixed, and there is nothing I could have said to him that would've come close to making up for all the shit I've done. I love my family and I want nothing more than to make them proud of me, to be worthy of their love, but I am just bad. As I said before, it's the way I'm wired. My birthmother was an addict. I am an addict and God forbid if I ever have children, they will be addicts too.

"_So you're just going to ignore me?"_

"_Dad, I don't know what you want me to say. I fucked up. I agreed to do this so back the fuck off."_

"_One, watch how you speak to me, I'm still your father, and two, you stole your mother's prescription pad, you forged her signature, and you filled those prescriptions illegally. Your mother could have lost her job and her license, and her reputation could have been ruined all because you fucked up. If it were up to me, you'd be rotting in a cell right now."_

"_Thank God for small favors."_

"_It's like I'm talking to a brick wall. This is it son. This is your last chance. If you don't get you act together then I am done. No more free ride. I won't pay your tuition. You can't stay at the house, nothing. Consider this your warning, if you don't successfully complete this program, not only are you no longer welcome in our home, but I will go to the police and tell them all about your little prescription pill ring up in Portland, are we clear?"_

"_Crystal."_

Rehab or Jail, those were my only options and that's how I ended up here, listening to Jack tout the dangers of meth. Only twenty seven days left.

"Ok, who's next?" John asks in his pretentious British accent, peering around to look at the person sitting next to Jack. "Ah, yes Anastasia, please share a little about your addiction."

"Umm, ok." Her soft, melodic voice immediately pulls me out of my fog. Two little words and my entire body is on alert. I sit up a little straighter, craning my neck in an attempt to see the owner of the voice that has unexpectedly stirred emotions inside of me that have long since been buried.

As she stands, I finally catch a glimpse of her. Even under the harsh neon light of the clinic she is breathtaking in the most unconventional sense. She's skinny, almost too skinny. Her skin is pale, her messy brown locks are piled high on top of her head, her powder blue eyes are sunken in, and she looks tired. There is something about her, something that no one else in the circle possesses, and that something has me drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. If you look closely enough you can see it - hidden beyond the sadness is hope.

"My name is Ana, and I am addicted to smack." Of course she's addicted to the one drug that nearly ended my life, how fitting. "I'd always been a happy person." My body edges closer as she begins to tell her tale of addiction. She is my new drug of choice, no other drug can compare. "Well, happy enough," she clarifies. "My real dad passed away before I was born. My stepfather, Ray, came into my life shortly after and raised me as his own. He saved me in more ways than one."

"Anyway, my mom and Ray got divorced when I was fourteen, and we moved around A LOT. She met husband number three while we were living out in Arizona," she cringes, visibly. Her entire demeanor changes at the mention of him, and instantly, I want this man dead. "Umm, that was a rough time for me and to cope, I started to experiment with drugs and alcohol. Like everyone else here, I started with the light stuff. I smoked pot and popped X at parties, mostly socially, anything to numb the pain. Then, as time went on and things at home got worse, I started using more and more, not only at parties or with friends, but at home, after school, hell, I even toked up during school."

"At sixteen, everything came to a head. My mother confronted me about my problem and… well… I," she stutters, her eyes shift to the floor and a single tear rolls down her cheek. I inch closer and closer, practically sitting on top of Jack, aching to comfort her.

"Take your time. Ana," John reassures. "We aren't here to judge, only to listen."

"Things got bad after that. I stopped going to school and started to really spiral. I just didn't want to feel anything anymore."

"The first time I shot up, a sense of calm washed over me body. It was like this instant gratification. Nothing seemed to matter anymore, I could do anything, handle anything when I was high, so my mission was to never come down, and I didn't, not until the night my mom walked in. She flipped. The next day I was on a plane to Seattle, to Ray, to my savior."

"Now here I am," she concludes, tugging at the sleeve of her sweater, "an eighteen year old high school dropout, on her last chance. My dad mortgaged his house to send me here and I won't let him down, not anymore."

"Thank you Ana," John, nods and I finally relax back into my seat. The next person in the circle begins to speak, but my mind is flooded with thoughts of the beautiful girl who has me so utterly captivated. What unspeakable evils did husband number three inflict upon her? Why didn't her mother protect her? So many unanswered questions, so much is still a mystery, and the intrigue only fuels my obsession.

**John concludes the** session with a recap of the rules and regulations during our stay at Silver Linings. We were all briefed when we signed in, but most of us were either high or in the early stages of withdrawal and probably only lucid enough to sign on the dotted line.

"Group will be held twice a week, once with your orientation class, the people sitting in the circle with you today, and once with a smaller more intimate class of people with similar addictions, in different stages of recovery. You will also be required to attend one-on-one counseling with the therapist you were assigned to when you checked in. Failure to miss any group or individual sessions will result in a loss of privileges for the week. If you miss more than one you will be put on probation."

"While we encourage you to connect with your peers, we have a zero tolerance fraternization policy. Your health and recovery should be your main priority. In short, focus more on getting clean and less on getting laid."

"Drug testing will be done once a day; if you fail to produce a clean sample you may be asked to leave. Addiction is serious, and it's something that we do not take lightly. If you are not committed to your recovery," he pauses, going around the circle, making eye contact with each one of us, "then we cannot run the risk of letting that toxic attitude poison the rest of our patients."

"There are ten people in this room. Three of you won't make it past the first week. Another four of you will relapse within the first thirty days of graduation. That means that only three people will successfully beat their addiction this time around." He stands, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "This is life and death, please accept the help that we are offering you, because you might not get a second chance."

The room goes silent, as we all know he is speaking the truth. I look around at my circle of peers, wondering who the lucky three will be. This disease is my curse, I've accepted my fate, and I've made peace with that, but that doesn't stop me from hoping that the beautiful little brown haired girl to my left makes it out of this alive.

"If everyone could stand please," Johns voice, breaking the grim silence. "We end each group session with a prayer to remind us of why are here and to help us stay focused on the battle ahead. Some people battle addiction all their life, but I have faith that if you take what you learn here over this next month and use it out in the real world, then every one of you will find peace."

"Please bow your heads. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. Living one day at a time; Enjoying one moment at a time; Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace; Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it; Trusting that He will make all things right if I surrender to His Will. Amen."

"Amen." I whisper, lifting my head up to sneak a better look at Anastasia. Her clothes are baggy, almost like she's wearing men's clothing. Her gray sweater is hanging well past her thighs and her loose fitting jeans are rolled at the ankle, probably to prevent them from dragging on the floor.

Standing up a little taller, I make my mind up to talk to her. I've never been particularly shy around girls; the one redeeming quality I inherited from my birth parents is my looks. I used to think the attention I received from the opposite sex was a curse. I wanted nothing more than to be invisible, but my face made that virtually impossible. It wasn't until I started getting really heavy into drugs that I saw the power I held simply by smiling. Girls are suckers for my gray eyes, one look and I could get them to do whatever I wanted. If I needed a ride somewhere, because my parents didn't trust me with a car, or if I needed one of them to score for me all I had to do was pick up the phone.

Anastasia is a different beast entirely. I'll have to play my cards right with her or I run the risk of getting us both kicked out of here. John made it clear, there is to be no fraternizing with other patients, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him.

"Alright guys," John addresses the group once more. "We're going to take a quick tour and then I'll take you to the dorms. All of your belongings should be in place in your rooms, and you'll have an hour to settle in before lunch." He finishes, clapping his hands. "Please feel free to ask any questions or voice any concerns. This is your home for the next month and we want you to be as comfortable as possible while you work towards sobriety," he nods. "Ok then, follow me."

Everyone begins to file out of the room, and I fall in line behind Anastasia. We are the last two people out the door, and I use our close proximity to my advantage. Leaning down I whisper into her ear, "Hi, I'm Christian."

She jumps slightly, angling her body away from me so that our eyes meet for the first time. I am transfixed by her gaze. There is a depth in her stare that most junkies have lost. Sure, she has the telltale signs of addiction, but there is also life, and blinding light. One look, and my world has been turned upside down. I was lost before I found her, and now she is my reason for existing.

I run my fingers through my unkempt copper locks in an attempt to break whatever spell she's cast over me. "You're Anastasia, right?"

"Look, dude. I don't know what your deal is, but don't ever invade my personal space like that again," she bites, rolling her eyes at me.

I smirk. "It's rude to roll your eyes at people, especially ones you've just met," I tease, falling in step beside her. That one small act of defiance sealed her fate. No one outside of my parents has ever told me no before. I can talk my way into or out of everything, a fact that I've taken advantage of a majority of my life.

"I don't know what you're selling, but I'm not buying. You heard him," she points ahead to John. "Patients aren't allowed to fuck other patients, so please just leave me alone."

"Who said anything about fucking?" I smile, turning up the charm. I know I should just drop it, but I can't, there is something there, something more.

"Are you listening to anything I'm saying? Let me break it down, so that even you can understand me, Not. Gonna. Happen." She emphasizes each word. Her tongue darts out, and she moistens her plump pouty lips.

I hold up my hands in defeat. "Listen babe, I don't know what you think I'm doing, but I swear my intentions are pure," I lie. My intentions are anything but. It's more than a physical attraction, I can't explain it, but I need to possess her. I want to consume her, just as she has unknowingly consumed me.

"Yea, right," she rolls her eyes again.

"Honestly. We're stuck here for the next month, what's wrong with trying to have a little fun?"

"You see, that right there is the problem," she stops pointing at me. Her blue eyes darken as she unleashes her rage on me. "This is a joke to you. You aren't serious about your sobriety; my guess is you are only here to shut mommy and daddy up. One look at you and I can tell you don't belong here with the rest of us. You're just the poor little rich kid who likes to piss his parents off. You don't have any idea what it's like for the rest of us. I've done some unspeakable shit in search of my next high. This," she whispers, gesturing around us, "is my last hope and I will not let some six foot two GQ reject fuck that up for me."

She shoots me one final glare and then storms off to catch up with the rest of the group.

**"Silver Linings Drug** and alcohol Rehabilitation center is one of the top rehab facilities on the west coast. The campus consists of five buildings strategically situated on ten acres of land sitting right off the coast of the Pacific Ocean. Not only do patients have access to the beach," John explains, "but we also have a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi."

"There are tennis courts, a full gym, and a variety of other activities at your disposable whenever you are not in therapy. We encourage everyone to find something they love, and focus their energy in learning a new hobby or perfecting a craft you may have neglected due to your addiction."

We walk a little further before stopping in front of a large glass building. "This is where the cafeteria is housed. There's a music room, an art room, a kitchen where we hold cooking classes, and the gym."

As we continue to walk the grounds of Silver Linings, I replay the conversation I had with Anastasia, over and over again in my head. She called me out on my bullshit and although she doesn't know dick about my past or my addiction, she has worked out that I am probably the worst thing that can happen to her recovery. It's just too bad I'm selfish enough to pursue her anyway.

* * *

**A/N: I'm not a therapist, nor have I ever been to rehab. The idea for this story has been stuck in my head for some time now, and I needed to get it out. I have spent countless hours researching, and I will do my best to write an accurate portrayal of addiction and recovery. **

**My hope is to update this story every Thursday, so please check back in next week for part two! Sex and Seattle fans, not to worry, I should have an update for you next weekend. **

**Thank you Ordlas for joining me on another adventure! **

**I hope you all are as intrigued with this story, and these characters as much as I am.**


	2. Chapter 2- Smells Like Teen Spirit

_Warning this chapter contains the F-word, the other F word._

* * *

**After the tou**r, John shows us to the dormitories. He hands us our room assignments and then leaves us to get settled. Opening the envelope with my name on it, I empty its contents into my hand. There's a piece of paper with my room number, 305, and my roommate's name on it. "Jack fucking Hyde," I mumble to myself as I climb the stairs to the third floor.

This is going to be the longest fucking month of my life, no coke, no pills, nothing. This entire situation is complete and utter bullshit. I've been skimming sheets from my mother's scrip pad for months and I never got caught. Why did I have to get greedy? Why did I think she wouldn't notice an entire pad missing?

* * *

**_Knock. Knock. Knock. _**

_The banging on my__ bedroom door wakes me from my near coma like state. "Go away," I growl. I only found my way back home an hour before, and my head is pounding as my body adjusted to coming down from the cocaine bender I'd been on for the last forty eight hours. _

_There was a party the night before, celebrating the beginning of summer break. Normally, huge ragers weren't my scene but I'd been riding the cocaine train for a day and a half and the only way I could afford to maintain my high was to move some pills. _

"_Christian Trevelyan Grey," my father's voice rips through the foggy haze that is my mind, instantly dragging me back to reality._

"_Fuck," I hiss, rolling out of bed. I stumble over something on my way to the door, and I'm horrified to find a half naked brunette passed out on the floor. "Just a minute," I yell, raking my fingers through my hair. _

"_Hey," I whisper, shaking the girl, trying to wake her, "hey, girl. Wake up."_

"_Christian, so help me I will break this fucking door down if you don't open it right this instant."_

"_Jesus, dad, let me put some clothes on." Without thinking I pull the comforter from my bed and drape it over the sleeping girl's body and pray that she doesn't wake up._

_I pad over to the door, opening it just enough for me to slip out, pulling it shut behind me. As loving and caring as my father can be, the man standing before me is anything but. Carrick Grey can be as ruthless and cold-hearted as they come, but that side of him is mostly reserved for the courtroom. "Dad?" I question, arching my brow. My brain is working a mile a minute, trying to figure out what I did wrong, while simultaneously trying to come up with an excuse for why I did it._

"_Where. Is. It?" his voice staccato, void of all emotion. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, his shoulders are pushed back, and he is standing straight up, his six foot two frame menacing. _

"_Dad, it's early. I have a massive headache and no clue what you're referring to," I yawn, not at all fazed by Attorney Grey._

_His hazel eyes narrow in, locking with mine. We stand there, staring each other down, both battling for dominance, neither of us willing to show the other one his hand too soon. "I'm going to ask you this one more time, and you better answer correctly," he growls, his gaze never wavering. "Your mother is missing a prescription pad, where is it?"_

_Fuck! Outwardly my demeanor remains cool and unaffected, but inside I am panicked. What the fuck can I say to get me out of this one? Who can I shift the blame to? Elliot? No, he hasn't been to the house since I got home; he's avoiding me. Mia? No, she's spending the summer backpacking across Europe with her friends. Gretchen? She's worked for my parents for most of my life and she's never stolen anything. They'd never buy that. "Of course, blame me. I'm the fuck up, junkie son that can't be trusted," I spit. A mask of impassivity washes across my face. I've spent years perfecting the look because my bulldog attorney father can smell bullshit a mile away. If you're going to lie to Carrick, you'd better be damn good at it._

"_Christian," my father interrupts. _

"_No," I scream. I'm on a roll now. If I have any chance of getting away with this shit, I have to be convincing. "You and mom always look at me whenever anything goes wrong. Why can't it be that mom just fucking lost it, or that Gretchen accidently threw the shit away? Why does it automatically have to be 'Christian must have stolen it'?" I huff, punching the wall with the side of my fist. _

"_You're really going to stand there and lie to my face," his voice cracks on the last word, a mixture of disappointment, anger, and hurt all flash across his eyes. He takes a deep, cathartic breath, "Get your little friend out of here and then meet me in my office."_

* * *

**I make it** up all three flights of stairs and find my room without incident. The residence hall is a stark contrast from the room where group was held earlier. The walls are painted in a soft cream color, and the lighting is dim, warm, comforting. There are five doors, each of them a rich mahogany, lending to the peaceful atmosphere on the floor.

Room 305 is located at the end of the narrow hallway; the door is slightly ajar. "Man up, Grey," I mumble to myself, "it's only four weeks." If I survived the first four years of my life with my crack-addicted, whore of a birth mother, I can survive four weeks in a room with a meth head.

Pushing the door open, I'm relieved to see that Jack isn't here yet. The room is bigger than I expected. The walls are the same cream color as the ones in the hall way. The hardwood floors are the same rich brown as the door. There are two queen sized beds pushed against the back wall. Two glass doors lead out to a balcony overlooking the beach.

I spot my duffle bag sitting on the bed closest to the balcony. I stride over to it, grab my iPod, and toss the bag onto the floor. I pull my headphones on and let the opening strings of _Smells Like Teen Spirit_ drown out the voices in my head.

_Load up on guns and bring your friends__  
__It's fun to lose and to pretend__  
__She's over bored and self assured__  
__Oh no, I know a dirty word__  
__Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, hello, how low_

_Hello, hello, how low__  
__Hello, hello, hello!_

* * *

**"**_**Sit down,** and shut the door behind you." There's a new resolve in his voice, he's all about business._

_I sigh, running my fingers through my head and slam the door shut. I shuffle over to one of the large plush chairs seated in front of his desk, and plop down, making myself comfortable. _

"_I'm going to give you one last chance to tell me what the hell happened."_

_I glare at him, crossing my arms in defiance. He's going to have to prove I'm guilty. I'm not saying a fucking word._

"_So that's how it's going to be?" He leans back in his chair, his hands steepled in front of him._

_I mimic his movements, raising my brow, calling his bluff._

"_Have it your way." Reaching forward, he grabs a folder off of his desk and tosses it in my lap. _

"_What's this?" I ask, picking up the file and flipping it open. _

"_Proof that Gretchen didn't throw anything away," he spits. The corner of his mouth pulls up in a half smirk, half grimace._

* * *

**I'm not sur**e how long I slept, but Kurt Cobain is quietly singing the unplugged version of _Where did you Sleep Last Night _when I finally come to. I've never really been able to sleep without swallowing a few pills, but detox left me feeling like I got hit by a fucking bus.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, wondering how the hell I'm going to make it a month without any chemical assistance. This entire thing is a fucking joke but at least I'll get to spend twenty-eight uninterrupted days overdosing on Anastasia.

From the corner of my eye I notice Jack sitting on his bed. I turn to look, and there he is, just sitting, staring directly at me. "What the fuck man?" I shout, jumping to my feet. My fists ball at my sides and I can feel the rage winding its way through my veins like venom, poisoning my mind, seizing control of my body. "You've got about thirty seconds to explain why you were watching me sleep before I knock those rotten fucking teeth right out of your fucking head."

"Relax, man," Jack pleads, holding his hands up in surrender. "I just got back from my one-on-one with Flynn. I swear I'm not a fag or nothing like that. I must have spaced. Still coming down, ya know?"

I take several deep breaths, willing myself to calm the fuck down. If I get kicked out of this place it will be because I'm balls deep in Anastasia, not because I beat the fuck out of my roommate. "Look," I sigh, running my fingers through my hair, "you stay on your side of the room and I'll stay on mine and we won't have any problems."

"Deal," he nods, his shoulder sagging in relief. There's an awkward silence; neither of us is sure what to do or say next, we are at an impasse, staring each other down. "So…"

"So?" I question.

"You wanna go get some grub? I hate eating alone."

"Hmf," I snort, shouldering past him and out the door.

I make it half way down the hallway before I hear Jack's nasally voice. "Wait up," he huffs. "Here, you forgot this." In his hands are my iPod and headphones. I narrow my eyes at him, not sure what game he's playing at. I know junkies, I am a junkie, we always have an ulterior motive. "So where you headed?" he asks with a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. His blue eyes shine with amusement as he waits for my response.

"Look, you can sit at the same table as me, but keep your fucking mouth shut," I growl, putting the headphones on, and let Nirvana stifle Jack's reply.

* * *

**We walk i**n silence, side by side, to the main dining hall. The cafeteria resembles an indoor market place. The entire back wall is made of glass, and all you see is clear blue water for miles and miles. There are several small food stands, strategically placed throughout the room, each one offering something different.

There's food from every corner of the earth; you can get American, Mexican, Asian, and Italian food. There's a vegetarian booth and a place that has fresh fruits and veggies. There's a snack bar where you can get sandwiches to go, a coffee shop, and a bakery.

I pull my headphones off and look over at Jack, who looks like he's just died and gone to heaven "I never wanna leave," he coos, mesmerized.

"How about I grab us a table?" I smirk. "Try not to hurt yourself."

"I can't make any promises," he grins, before heading off in search of sustenance.

To an addict, this place is like heaven. When you're high the only thing you worry about is maintaining that high, and when you aren't high, the only thing on your mind is getting high. Food doesn't rank very high on the list, at least not for hardcore fiends like Jack.

I take a moment to look around, the cafeteria is pretty quiet, and only a few tables are actually occupied. I head for a table in the back, but stop cold when I spot her, sitting near the window with another girl. Without hesitation, I stride over to her direction.

"Mind if I join you?" I grin, pulling up a chair next to Anastasia.

"Yes, actually -"Anastasia begins but is immediately cut off by her the girl she is sitting with.

"No, not at all," she winks at me.

"Leila," Anastasia reprimands.

"Thank you, Leila," I say, piling on the charm. Leila has dull brown hair and eyes. She's about the same height and build as my Ana, but that's where the similarities end. I can tell right away that Leila is a meth head because, like Jack, her face is covered with sores and she's missing her two front teeth. "My name is Christian by the way." I extend my hand to Leila and she eagerly accepts it, holding on a little bit too long.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Anastasia rolling her eyes, and I can't help but push her buttons just a little more. "So, Leila, that's a really cool name," I say, reaching over and grabbing a fry off of Ana's plate.

"Thanks," her front missing front teeth causing her to slur the _s._ "It's Arabic, it means _night beauty_."

"Well, it certainly fits," I comment, swiping another fry.

Anastasia narrows her eyes at me and I give her my best see-I'm-not-so-bad-after-all smile.

"Thank you," Leila, giggles, and then turns to Anastasia. "Ana, you said he was an asshole." She smiles her toothless smile, "He doesn't seem so bad to me." There is movement under the tables and then, "OUCH!" Leila shrieks. "What the fuck did you do that for?" she asks, rubbing her shin.

Just then Jack comes over with a tray overflowing with food and sits down next to Leila. "Hey, I'm Jack," he quickly introduces himself, before he starts to shove food into his mouth.

"Slow down, it's not going to grow legs and run away," I say in disgust.

He grunts a response and continues to devour his food.

I reach over to steal another fry from Ana's plate, but this time she smacks my hand away. "Go get your own," she seethes.

"Yours taste so much better," I grin at her suggestively.

"I think I just threw up a little in my mouth."

"What exactly is it about me that you hate so much?" I ask, draping my arm across her shoulder.

"Well, for starters, you have no concept of personal space." She shrugs my arm off before continuing, "and you don't seem to take this seriously. Even in group, it's like you were just going through the motions. I don't want to be associated with someone who's only going through the motions. I need to be surrounded by people who actually want to get help."

"Just because I'm not as self-righteous about my recovery as you are doesn't mean that I don't want to get help."

"I'm sorry," her blue eyes grow wide and her cheeks flush an adorable shade of pink. "I didn't mean to belittle your recovery," she apologizes sincerely.

"I'll forgive you if I can have another fry."

"Unbelievable," she scoffs. "Come on Leila," she stands, snatching her tray off the table. "Let's get out of here."

She stumbles a little as she shoves past me, and I try but fail to stifle my laugh. "There's some floor there," I tease.

"Fuck you," she growls before turning on her heels and stomping away.

"She's a feisty one," Jack comments, his mouth full of fried rice.

"You're disgusting, you know that, right?" I stand.

"You're leaving? You didn't even eat nothing."

"I seem to have lost my appetite," I answer dryly.

"I hate eating by myself," he whines.

"Stop whining, you sound like a bitch and anyway, I gotta go see Flynn."

* * *

**Flynn's office** is smaller than I expected, for a facility this size. His oak desk sits in the middle of the room, and off to the corner, sitting in front of a floor to ceiling window, are two brown leather chairs.

"Christian," John greets, motioning for me to sit in one of the brown chairs.

"Dr. Flynn," I nod.

"Please, Dr. Flynn was my father," he smiles. "Call me John or just Flynn if you prefer."

"Ok," I say, plopping down into the chair. I focus my gaze out the window, noting a tree just outside his office, swaying with the wind. I've been in and out of therapy for most of my childhood. My parents thought it would help. They thought it would make me normal; even now, sending me to this place, they're still holding on to the hope that I can be redeemed.

"Are you getting settled in ok?" Flynn questions.

Reluctantly, I tear my gaze from the dancing tree to study the latest charlatan who's trying to sell me his snake oil. John Flynn looks to be about my dad's age, maybe a little younger. He has that air of British arrogance about him that makes you instantly feel inferior, because they say things like _hire a car, _instead of rent and they go to the _cinema_, instead of the movies. "Yup," I respond, turning back to my tree.

"How are you getting along with your flat-mate? Jack, right?"

"Jack's a meth head," I reply.

"He's in recovery, much like yourself. He's made choices in his past that he's not proud of, but he's working toward sobriety," Flynn qualifies.

"Jack. Is. A. Meth head." I repeat.

"And you are a coke head, who sells prescription pills to his classmates, to support his habit."

"I don't pretend to be anything else. I'm infected with this disease, there is no cure, no easy fix or magic pill, it's all bullshit."

"Why are you here then?" He asks.

"Rehab or jail," I yawn. "I choose rehab."

Flynn studies me for a moment, weighing something in his mind. "I've known your parents for quite a few years. I'm on the Coping Together board of trustees with your mother, and I play golf with your father once or twice a month."

That gets my attention and I am instantly on alert. I can feel my hackles rise and my blood boils over. Of course they would send me somewhere that they could keep tabs on me. My father is no idiot, and if I hadn't been so out of it the day I checked in, I would've put two and two together a lot sooner. "So when my dad pulled you aside the other day?"

"Everything that happens here is confidential. I am bound by law; I can't tell them what we discussed or anything else about your treatment."

"But?"

"But, I will not let you skate through this program by doing the bare minimum. If I don't see you giving 100 percent to this program and your recovery then you will not graduate."

"Are we done here?" I growl.

"For now," he nods."

I stand abruptly, causing the chair to rock back, and storm towards the door. The last thing I hear before I'm out of earshot is Flynn's smug voice, "Same time tomorrow."

"This is bullshit," I mutter, pushing through the doors and mumbling a steady stream of curse words the entire way back to my room.

* * *

**I take th**e steps two at a time, trying to rein in my anger enough so that I can make it to my room without punching someone. How dare my father set me up like this! If he wanted my ass in jail, then why not just send me there in the first fucking place?

I shove through the door to room 305 and slam it behind me with as much force as I can. The door bounces back, taunting me and I slam it shut again, this time pushing it with both hands until it catches.

I grab my duffle and start shoveling the few things that spilled out back inside. Fuck John fucking Flynn. I don't need a fucking baby sitter.

My rage is bubbling dangerously out of control. If I'm going to leave this place, I will not go quietly. I kick over the desk chair. Then I pick up the vase off the side table and throw that against the wall.

"Hey, Chris, what the fuck are you doing?" Jack says entering the room.

"Fuck this place. I'm outta here," I seethe, snatching my duffle off the bed.

"Wait. It's only day one; calm down and tell me what the fuck happened." I have to hand it to Hyde, most people wouldn't approach a mad dog, but not Jack.

"Don't touch me," I bark, as he gets closer and closer.

"I won't, dude, I come in peace, just chill out, and tell me what happened with Flynn to make you lose your shit." His eyes are wrinkled with concern and for some unexplainable reason, Jack is actually worried about me.

I stand there, my chest heaving up and down as my anger subsides. I close my eyes, and take deep, calming breaths. I can't believe I am about to confide in a meth head, but right now, he's the only person I can trust. Once I'm calm enough to talk without breaking anything, I tell Jack what happened in Flynn's office.

"So you feel like your parents set you up?" he clarifies.

"I don't feel like, they did. This whole fucking thing was a set up."

"A set up to get you clean, because they love you and they don't want to see you dead," he reasons.

"You don't understand," I huff, running my fingers through my hair.

"I understand alright. I understand that you're willing to throw away this chance to get clean, and spend however long in jail, just to stick it to your folks. "

"Exactly. I don't want to get clean. I don't need help. I have everything under control."

"Christ, man, for a smart kid you sure are dumb," Jack says, shaking his head in disappointment. Great, I even disappoint my crank head roommate.

"What would you do?" I ask, pacing back and forth.

"Look man, your body is still detoxing and honestly I think this little temper tantrum of yours is your body's way of telling you it wants to get high. That's the real reason you're so eager to bail, and that's exactly why I can't let you."

I continue pacing, weighing out my options. The rational side of my brain knows that he's probably right, but the bigger, more vocal side is screaming FUCK THE WORLD at the top of its lungs.

"Sleep on it," Jack says, standing to take his leave. "If you still feel like getting your shit and dippin' out in the mornin' then so be it, it's your fucking life."

I watch Jack walk out the door, quietly closing it behind him. Here's right, I would be an idiot to leave. Only twenty seven days to go.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you Ordlas for beta'n. Thank YOU for your faves/follows/reviews. Stay tuned for next Thursday, Chapter 3 is when things start to get dark!**


	3. Chapter 3

_**The room is** dark. The blackout curtains are drawn, a towel haphazardly thrown over the lamp, the only light coming from the TV. There's a bootleg gangster movie playing on the screen. Al Pacino and Steven Bauer are plotting the death of a former high-ranking officer in Castro's army._

_There's a thick haze of smoke in the air. The small white box fan does nothing to diminish the smoke, it does even less for the smell. The smell is toxic. It smells like burning plastic and piss; my stomach clenches at the familiar odor. _

_I stand in the corner, watching the familiar scene play out. I'm trapped in a dream, a nightmare. It's the same as it always is, I stand and watch as my four-year-old self sits on the couch playing with a plastic hot wheels car, as my mother and her pimp sit beside me taking turns, sucking from a makeshift tin foil pipe._

_My four-year-old self is blissfully unaware, he has no clue what the little mountain of pebbles on the tables is. He has no clue how many times his mother had to drop to her knees, just to be able to afford those little party favors. He has no clue that the fumes he's breathing are toxic. He is just happy to have the new toy mommy brought home, a rarity in deed._

_As the night wears on, the little pile gets smaller and smaller. Al Pacino marries Michelle Pfeiffer, and little Christian starts to get antsy. "Mama," he says, tugging on the waif thin woman's elbow. _

"_Hmm," she murmurs, lighting the top of the pipe. She inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs, then exhaling, adding to the already hazy atmosphere. _

"_Eat, eat, mama," the boy whines._

_I step closer, from my spot on the corner I silently will my four-year-old self to keep his mouth shut. Nothing good can come of this. Stay quiet kid, it will all be over soon, I mutter. _

"_Ok baby, mama will get you something soon, but I need you to sit tight for a little while longer." The brunette slurs. Her gray eyes, my gray eyes, are glassy, dead. The chemical smell gets stronger, and four-year-old Christian clutches at his stomach. Hunger pains, mixed with the stench of burning crack rock, are making him queasy._

_My hands reflexively grab at my mid-section, as I watch in terror while the boy's face strains and contorts. Wake up Wake up Wake up, I chant. I know what's coming, and I don't want to be here when it does. I lived through this once. I've relived it in dreams for years and years. The only thing that kept the nightmares at bay was drugs. Any drug I could get my hands on, anything to numb the pain, anything except crack. To this day, I still can't stomach the smell._

"_Mama," the boy says, trying to scoot off the couch. _

"_Just a minute Chrissy."_

"_Mama," the boy stands, "Mama, my tummy."_

"_Shut him the fuck up," her pimp bellows. His dark eyes look black in the dark haziness of the room. They are lifeless, they are eyes I will never forget. Those eyes, that smell, that day, will always be burned into my brain. Every decision in my life has been impacted by this moment. _

"_Mama," he wailed; that's what did it, he inhaled deeply, the burning plastic smell flooding his lungs, my lungs. His stomach turns, and he begins to cough. I drop to my knees from my spot in the corner. I feel what he feels. His pain is my pain. _

_The man and woman look on as the boy clutches his stomach. The sour taste of stomach acid fills my mouth as the boy continues to heave. I crawl towards the couch, trying to make my way over in time. My mouth is watery, as I look on helplessly as the boy's cheeks puff out, he's trying to hold it in, but the smoke filling his nostrils makes it impossible to breath. _

"_Blecchhhhhhhh," little Christian spews the contents of his stomach lining all over the table, all over the little pile of crack rocks. _

"_You little piece of shit!" the pimp yells. He jumps to his feet and grabs the boy up by his collar. The woman sits, stunned. She doesn't realize it when she sees him throwing the boy against the wall. She doesn't realize there's a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and she most certainly doesn't see the man ripping the shirt off the back of her child. She doesn't hear his cries, nor does she hear the man verbally and physically abusing the child. _

_All she sees is the tiny pile of crack drowning in the pool of vomit. _

"_NO! STOP! HE'S JUST LITTLE BOY YOU SICK FUCK!" I yell in vain. _

_It's always the same, I watch helplessly as the man, the demon, plucks the smoke from his lips. "Your stomach hurts, does it?" the man asks, a sadistic smile creeping across his face. The little boy cowers into a ball, his gray eyes pleading with the man. He's too young to know that the devil doesn't compromise. "You and your weak ass stomach ruined my night. Do you know how many dicks your bitch mother had to suck to get that shit?" he asks, rolling the cig between his thumb and forefinger._

"_ARE YOU JUST GONNA SIT THERE, YOU FUCKING JUNKIE BITCH?" I scream at my mother; she's more concerned with saving her dope than she is with the boy screaming in terror in the corner._

"_Your stomach hurts? I'll show you how bad your stomach can hurt." His smile fades, as the he takes the orange flickering end of the cigarette and stabs it into the boy's chest._

"_M-MA-MAAAA," the boy, cries._

_The pain rips through my stomach as the boy continues to beg his useless mother for help. "CAN'T YOU HEAR HIM? YOU BITCH. YOU'RE JUST GOING TO SIT THERE? I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT."_

* * *

**"Christian!** Christian, dude wake up." Jack says, shaking me awake.

I bolt straight up, my shirt is drenched in sweat, as my mind struggles to decipher what's real and what's not. I haven't dreamt of her in years. "Get off me," I growl snatching away from Jack. "Don't ever fucking touch me."

"I'm sorry man," he apologizes, slowly backing towards his bed. "You were screamin' and thrashin' around, I didn't know what else to do."

Standing up, I peel the wet shirt off and toss it into the corner. My mind is fuzzy, the nightmares are back. It's always the same, always me looking in on my life before I became a Grey. I stand back, helpless as I watch the little boy suffer. Tonight's nightmare was a stark reminder of the life I tried to bury under a fog of drugs and alcohol.

"You want to talk about it?" Jack offers as he settles back under the covers.

"No," I bark.

"You might feel better if you get that shit off your chest."

"There's nothing to get off my chest. It was a dream."

Digging through my drawers I pull out a dry shirt and pull it over my head. My mind is racing. My chest is on fire. That was the first time it happened, but it surly wasn't the last. After that night, I became his personal ashtray. If I made too much noise, if I was too quiet, none of it mattered, it was always my fault.

I crawl back into bed and try to clear my mind of the dark shit that is now firmly rooted in the forefront of my mind. This is why I snort cocaine. I need a hit right now more than I need my next breath. My mind races, trying to fight the urge to walk out of here right now, and into the nearest bar.

"So," Jack whistles, the words passing through his teeth in an attempt to lighten the mood. He scrutinizes me, studying my every move, like he knows exactly what I'm thinking, like he's formulating a plan to stop me. He's talked me off the ledge once, and from the look in his eyes, he's about to attempt it a second time. "Are you going to the zoo?"

"What?" I say stunned, arching a brow at my roommate. That was the last thing I expected to come out of Jack's rotten mouth.

"The zoo," he repeats, like it's a perfectly normal thing for two fuckups to be talking about going to the fucking zoo.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" I ask. "The fucking zoo," I huff pulling the covers up over my shoulder. I turn to stare out the window, knowing that sleep isn't an option, but desperate to end this conversation.

"They're organizing an off campus outing," he continues, seemingly unfazed by my turned back. "It's lame, but at least it's a chance to get out of this place for a few hours."

"What the fuck am I supposed to do at the fucking zoo?" I mutter.

"I don't know, dude, but I bet that hot little piece that you've been following around like a lovesick puppy is going to be there," he offers, and I can hear the smile in his voice. Fucking bastard.

* * *

**"How are you** getting along so far?" Flynn asks, bringing his right ankle to rest on his left knee. His brown eyes study me, waiting to dissect my response.

"About as good as can be expected," I reply, mimicking his movements. Truth be told, after the pissing contest with Flynn during our first one-on-one session, things have been relatively calm.

Jack's little pep talk helped me realize that storming out of here would probably be the most idiotic fucking thing that I could do. I've decided to treat this like a twenty eight day vacation. I just have to show up to a couple therapy sessions and then I can spent the rest of my time relaxing on the beach, chasing Ana, and convincing Flynn I'm fixed. I'll be out of here and back to the real world in no time.

"Care to elaborate?" Flynn pushes.

"I started playing the piano again, I haven't played since I left for college, it's-" I pause, searching for the correct word, "cathartic, I guess." I'd forgotten how much I loved to play. I'd forgotten pretty much everything about myself in the last few years.

"You guess?"

"Well, yea. I mean, I have all this dark shit, memories, nightmares," I explain, tapping my head with my index finger. "All stuck on repeat in my mind."

"So playing the piano helps cancel all of that out?"

"For a while," I shrug. Eventually, they always come back. It's my curse. It's my cross to bear for sitting back and watching my mother kill herself; for being too weak, too helpless.

"Is that what you did to cancel out the 'dark shit' before?"

"Hmf," I snort, "No. I did cocaine."

"So you're saying you abused drugs and alcohol in order to cope with the unresolved demons of your past?"

"I abused drugs and alcohol because my birth mother abused drugs and alcohol. I'm a natural born fuck up." Can't beat em, join 'em.

"Tell me about her," Flynn asks, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. "What do you remember about your time with your birth mother?"

"Don't you have this stuff written down in a file somewhere?" I question, shifting in my seat. I don't like thinking about this shit, and I damn sure don't want to relive it with this pretentious ass.

"I have a brief history, but I want to hear what you have to say about your experiences. I can't help you learn how to cope with the 'dark shit,'" he lifts his hands, making air quotes, "if I don't have your firsthand account.

"I promise we won't spend every session rehashing your past. Frankly, I don't think that would be very helpful to you, but I want you to be able to talk about your mother and her issues without immediately running to the nearest liquor store or dope man to help you forget. I want you to be able to have a thought or a dream about your early years and not have it affect your sobriety."

"One has nothing to do with the other," I mutter petulantly, uncrossing my legs and turning to stare out of the window. The tree is there, as it always is, blowing in the wind.

"Oh come off it, Christian. You and I both know that the one has everything to do with the other."

"So what if it does?" I shrug. "Addiction is a disease. There's no cure-all magic pill, or quick fix. Playing the piano isn't a substitute for getting high, it doesn't even compare."

"I don't believe your addiction is a disease."

"Then what would you call it?" I ask, skeptically. Every shrink I have ever been to has steadfastly maintained that addiction is, in fact, a disease. They all spout the same mantra: _There is no cure for addiction. Every day is a battle. One day at a time, blah, blah blah._

"I believe that people abuse drugs and alcohol for a variety of reasons. Maybe a chemical imbalance or, like you, they have unresolved issues from their past that need to be resolved. I think that some use it as a way to cope with things in their life that they can't control, and others may have a skewed mental image. They don't believe they deserve a normal and healthy life so they seek out things to prevent them from having one," he explains. "You are right about one thing, there is no magic cure all. Everyone has different reasons for turning to drugs, one or a mixture of all the reasons I stated, but no one is a lost cause. No one is too far gone to be saved. Not even you."

As I sit there, staring at my tree, I try to digest what he's telling me. It's hard to reconcile what he's just said with what I've believed my entire life.

"So," he pauses, waiting for me to come back to the here and now, "tell me about your time with your birthmother."

* * *

**After my session** with Flynn I find myself walking the familiar path to the music room. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins as my legs push me toward my destination.

My mission is to let my fingers exorcise the demons I thought were buried and gone. Before coming here, I hadn't thought or dreamt about the life I lived prior to my parents finding me since I was thirteen.

You can't envision your mother lighting a crack pipe while you play in the corner with a dirty dish rag when you're rolling. You can't hear her being raped from your hiding spot in the closet if you're passed out in a drunken stupor. You can't feel the searing pain the lit end of a cigarette causes if you're too high off the ground to feel anything at all, and you most certainly cannot smell the stench of rotting flesh once the needle is in your arm.

As I near my destination, I break out into a full on sprint. My heart beats faster and faster with each stride and my anxiety reaches a fever pitch. I push through the door of the music room and thankfully it's empty.

I sit down at the bench, shuffling through the music laying on the ledge, most of it's beginner stuff, none of it difficult enough to quell the images in my head. I rack my brain, trying to think of the most difficult piece of music I know. Stretching my fingers, I begin to pound out the notes to Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 23.

The piece is difficult, even more so without the music in front of me. I'm rusty, but my mistakes push me harder, each one carries me further and further away from thoughts of my childhood. My only focus is perfecting this piece of music, losing myself in the melody.

I play the piece through to the end, and then I start it over from the beginning.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

I'm not sure how long I've sat there. My fingers start to cramp, and my back is sore from leaning over the keys. My brain is numb. I gently lower the lid on the piano. The images of my past are safely hidden, for now.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice a slight movement. "What are you doing here?" I ask the beautiful brunette whom I've spent the last four days stalking.

Her cheeks are flushed at being caught, but she quickly recovers. The tough girl mask, sliding back into place, "I saw you stomping out of Flynn's office." She shrugs. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to do anything stupid so I followed you."

"You've been here the entire time?" I ask, surprised. Not only did she care enough to want to make sure I was ok, she stayed with me for hours.

"Uh… well, if you want to get technical, yes."

"You like me, don't you?" I smirk, standing up and walking over to where she's sitting. Her hair is down, draped over her left shoulder, and her blue eyes are alert. "Admit it. I'm wearing you down."

"In your dreams," she rolls her eyes, but makes room for me to join her on the bench. "Where did you learn to play like that?"

"I started taking lessons when I was five," I begin, taking her hand in mine. She gently slips her hand out of my grasp, leaving me with a small apologetic smile. She doesn't like to be touched, a fear I know all too well.

"I'd been with my parents for a few months," I continue, "and I was having a hard time adjusting. I didn't talk, I barely ate, and I woke up every night screaming in terror from the nightmares. I couldn't stand to be touched so Grace…" I smile, thinking back on that first year with my family. I thought Grace was an angel; now that I'm older, I know she is. "She'd sit with me, all night if she had to, until I calmed down. In hindsight, I think I was afraid that as soon as I got too attached to my new family, they would leave me, just like the crack whore left me and I would be alone. The piano is like an old friend. It never judges me, I never disappoint it, and it will never leave me."

"Sounds like you love it," she whispers. A single tear slips from her eye and she drops her gaze to her lap.

"Hey," I say, lifting her chin up, wiping the tear away with my thumb. She tenses for a moment, studying me with her eyes. "What's with the tears?"

"It's stupid. I should go." She moves to stand, but I pull her back down, into my lap, and wrap my arms around her.

"I'm not letting you go until you tell me what's going on, so stop squirming," I tell her. She feels so good in my arms, she fits perfectly, like she was made to be there.

"I'll tell you if you let me go," she offers.

"Nope, I let you go and you bolt for the door. I told you about the piano, now it's your turn to talk."

"Fine," she huffs, turning in my arms to face me. "I was thinking about how scary it must have been for you, in the beginning. Then the way your face lit up when you were talking about your mother, it was… it was, beautiful." Her body, finally relaxes, and she bends down to rest her forehead against mine. "I wish I had that," she admits.

"I thought your mom was still alive?"

"She's dead to me." Her voice is as cold as a winter day.

"Why? What did she do to you?" I ask.

"It's what she didn't do," she responds cryptically.

"Tell me," I press.

"She did… she always…" she struggles to explain. "She's not a very good mom, ok. Just drop it."

I want to push for more answers, but I can tell that she's shutting down. I don't know what it is about her, but I feel this overwhelming need to protect her. I like having her in my arms and I'm not ready to let go. "Did you sign up for the zoo outing next week?" I ask, in an attempt to change the subject.

"Zoo?" she asked confused.

"Yea, Jack was telling me about it. It's not really my thing, but it's a chance to get off campus for a while," I say absently, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. A shiver runs down her body, and her eyes glaze over in fear. She is off my lap and halfway to the door before I have a chance to react.

"I'll think about it," she calls over her shoulder and with that, my sad, mysterious girl is gone, and I am left with more questions than answers.

* * *

**A/N: Thank you Ordlas for you help with this chapter. Thank YOU for you will be my last chapter for a few weeks, as some real life things came up that I need to take care of. It's nothing bad, but it is making writing really difficult. **

**Oh and to those of you who pick up on the Sandra Bullock reference, yes! All off my stories have movie inspired titles, I don't know where it came from, but I decided to run with it ! This story, however, will be dark, and most of it will be set after rehab. It's about two people struggling with love and sobriety. As one guest review so eloquently wrote, rehab is like vacation, sobriety is easy there, it's real life that's the hard part. **


End file.
